


The Fairy's Got Teeth, or, the James B. Barnes Guide to Life, Good Business, and Plenty of Fun

by gloss



Category: Captain America
Genre: 16+, Golden Age, Other, WWII, canon is quantum, queer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-10
Updated: 2009-12-10
Packaged: 2017-10-04 08:09:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gloss/pseuds/gloss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It's the way we all of us secretly love one another, or long to."</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Fairy's Got Teeth, or, the James B. Barnes Guide to Life, Good Business, and Plenty of Fun

**Author's Note:**

> Summary from Baker's _Tim &amp; Pete_. Jube looked this over, because she's awesome like that, but all remaining awkwardness is, of course, my own.  
> **Spoilers/setting:** Golden Age Cap, Nicieza's Sentinel of Liberty, Waid's late-90s SoL, and Brubaker's v.5. No, really.

**05-19-07**

Bucky knows what they say about him. Around the camp, he's famous and notorious in equal measure. _Infamous_, Duffy and the higher-ups call him.

Barnes can get you anything. Barnes'll try anything, just dare him.

Barnes will *do* anything. If the deal's sweet enough; just try him.

Fame, he's figured out in the years since his dad died, is a tricky thing. You want it — and he *does*, otherwise there'd be no business to finagle — then you've got to take the bad with the good.

He's figured out other, equally important principles:

Don't keep too high a percentage for yourself, but don't ever welsh, either.

 

Always leave 'em wanting more.

 

Never, ever, stop looking out for yourself.

  
The last rule he has known the longest, thanks to his father.

So Bucky takes the good where he finds it. It's good when a private with molasses-dark eyes pets Bucky's head afterward, rough fingers through his sweaty hair. Good, too, when the chestnut-haired corporal whispers the name of his hometown sweetheart. Better when he forgets her and hisses out nonsense.

The way Bucky looks at things, the good needs to outweigh the bad. He needs to come out ahead, simple as that. The bad — zit-spattered asses and faces, snarls when he wins another hand, right hooks that send him splayed in the mud if he spits instead of swallowing — he can take the bad. Just so long as he's got enough good stored up.

Basic accounting arithmetic, that's how he operates. He's the only one who cares about James B. Barnes, so he'd damn well do the best job he can at that. He treats himself, then, whenever he can; what he likes is everything, and nothing, like what they call it.

_Fairy, cornholer, queer. Sweet, sweet suck_.

That's nobody business but his own. The profit's all his, for overhead and oversight, the breadth of a warm chest and the scratchy burn of leg hair against his cheek.

He's a magnate, an operator, a wheeler-dealer and jiver.

In four months, PFC Lamb has done lots of business. He's traded his aunt's chocolate toffees for Turkish tobacco, offered up his copies of Cinema Foto News for more tobacco and a hipflask, and swapped Brownie-snaps of his brother's sweetie reclining on a Poconos beach for two fifths of bourbon.

Now he thinks he can hand over the half-gone bourbon for D.H. Lawrence's dirty book.

Bucky rolls the bottle down the bed. "Water it down all you want, Lamb. Won't help."

Lamb has hot, bright eyes, like macadam after the rain. "C'mon, Barnes," he says.

Bucky pats his satchel. "C'mon *nothing*. You get some real goods, maybe then we can talk."

"We're talking now." Lamb rubs the side of his neck as he stretches out on his bed. His throat is tanned, deeply so, olive and roses, probably real soft to the touch.

"This isn't talking," Bucky says.

"No?" Lamb's shirt is open against the heat. The deep curve of his undershirt looks dark with sweat. "What is it?"

"Get some more snaps of your sister-in-law —" Bucky tips his head. "Then we'll have *lots* to talk about."

Lamb nudges the bourbon. It rolls back down the length of the bed. "Take it."

"Nah," Bucky says. "No use for it."

Lamb snorts. "Never sample the merchandise?"

Bucky's throat tickles. Right at the back, like he swallowed a burr. "Nope."

"Not what I hear."

"Who're you gonna believe?" Bucky swings his satchel onto his shoulder and spreads his arms. "A bunch'a meatheads?" Leaning over, he taps his chin, then his lips. "Horse's mouth, brother."

"Filly, I hear." Lamb looks him over. Slow and dark, macadam again, gone sticky in the heat. "We could have us a party."

"That we could." Bucky vaults the footlocker and lands in the middle of the bed. He squeezes Lamb's knee, lets his uniform-drab trousers bunch between his fingers. "You're still going to owe me some snaps *and* a pound of toffees."

Tongue in his teeth, Lamb checks the barracks' entrance. "Done."

"You could say that." Bucky grins. "Or — getting started."

He's Henry Ford and Jay Gould, Thomas Alva Edison, inventor and baron, the Queen of Lehigh, chancellor of his own chaotic exchequer.

If they don't care to respect that, well —.

Then they'll have to be satisfied with their own palms and squashed packages from home. He doesn't do business with anyone who won't respect him.

They'll regret it later, curse themselves out. By then he'll be across camp, sorting a new shipment or kneeling for a new friend.

*He* won't be the one who suffers.

"Time's up, Barnes. Give me my money."

Bad blood makes for bad business, so Bucky doesn't cultivate enemies.

All the same, he's never going to deal with Corporal Atwood again, not if he's got any say in the matter. With Atwood dancing out of reach and his three buddies crowing when blood gushes from Bucky's nose, this is the time to say something.

Bucky gets in a good punch, right on Atwood's ribs. The impact reverberates up his arm and leaves it numb.

Still laughing, two of Atwood's boys hold him down so their boss can kick the living soul out of Bucky's kidneys. His left leg jerks out, twitching, but Bucky wrestles free and manages to bite someone's hand.

He's on one knee, holding his side, as he hocks out foamy blood and spit. His ears are ringing so loud, he can't make out what Atwood's yelling.

"What're you waiting for?" Bucky keeps the PX building to his left; he knows better than to get backed in a corner. "Four on one and it's *still* not a fair fight."

Hand on Bucky's collar, Atwood yanks him up on his toes. "Give me back my fucking money, Barnes."

Nice view from up here, he notes, now that he's dangling. Bucky grins; he hopes there's blood on his teeth, like in Dracula. "Already explained, my good man. Unforeseen circumstances, you know how it is, ol' buddy of mine."

Atwood drops him, just as the biggest goon gets Bucky across the jaw. His head snaps back, his teeth rattle.

"Huh, well." Bucky locks his knees so he won't stagger. "Well, *that* stung a mite."

Anger stains Atwood's face red, shrinks his eyes to piggy little spots. "My money, you sick little queer."

"Patience, buddy. Patience. It's a virtue, I hear. I think if you'll refer to the word of our Lord, chapter seven, verse —"

Knee to his gut and this time, Bucky does stagger. All the air in his chest blows out — through his *ears*, it feels like — and he falls. He lands on both hands, one knee.

"Of course, efficiency's a virtue, too," he says when the air stops burning like mustard gas and he can hear something besides the heavenly bells. "Tomorrow night, outside the chapel. You'll get your dough."

They leave, muttering and bumping shoulders. It takes him a good ten minutes to find where his balance went and get back to his feet.

He wipes the sweat and blood off his face and looks around. At least no one was around to see this. This kind of thing can be *murder* on customer goodwill.

Word around camp, that's his currency.

He hears what they say. He hears, in fact, things they can't even imagine.

Lots of times, they don't wait til he's out of earshot.

"Heinz said, better'n any whore, he said."

 

"No kidding?"

 

"I don't kid about these things. Sweetest mouth this side of the angels' chorus, he said."

"Disgusting, the way he flits around. Like he owns the place."

 

Bucky doesn't own anything. He doesn't *want* to own anything; things just weigh you down. Property exists to be moved. No point in letting it lay still, not when it could get you something better. Something different.

Some of them, sometimes, they never say anything at all.

There's a tall NCO, hair like fall leaves, hands that dangle off skinny wrists, two sizes too big for the rest of him. Bucky manages to get him *l ütefisk* in a Byzantine deal that stretches to Edina, Minnesota and halfway past there to Mexico; he doesn't ask for payment.

Instead, he takes two nights when the officer's squad goes out on maneuvers. Cheek pressed to cold grass, his fist in his mouth to muffle the noise. A yearning heat that fills Bucky all the way up — or maybe it radiates *from* him — from behind, from the hands on his hips and the chest sliding against his back. Two nights, again and again, kisses sour with lye and herring while Bucky forgets to breathe.

When they get back to camp, Samuelsson never looks at Bucky again. Never says a word, never even blinks. Not even when Bucky shoves him against the latrines and demands just one word.

Bucky gets a month in the brig for *that* stunt.

He makes plenty of contacts there. He promises, on his dead mother's memory, never to forget himself like that again. Rule #3: Look out for yourself; no one else is going to bother.

And that means he goes where he pleases, watches what he wants. All hours of the day, he sees them. He watches them training, eating, sleeping and showering. Lehigh is *his* home, while they're just passing through. Three thousand eager customers, just waiting for a sweet deal.

Bucky'll give them that, and more. It's never been about the money; it's about the game. Juggling, keeping countless balls in the air, taking home more than he gives away. It's about exchange — usually it's commodities for cash, like dirty playing cards, books banned in Boston, sometimes it's simple as homemade hot cross buns.

But you can play and trade far more than coins and a couple bills; he arranges favors for more favors, swaps out barrack assignments, takes KP duty for a goodlooking fellow. He's more than willing to give it all away, give himself *up*, whimper like a dog, if it means half an hour spent in strong arms before reveille.

James Madison Barnes — Pop — he flew over Vimy and Berlin in the Great War. He knew what he was talking about; his word was law. Watch your own back, son. Ain't noone else will.

He wasn't Bucky's only teacher, just the biggest and strongest. Bucky knows soldiers like other boys know baseball: it's in his *blood*. He teethed on medals, slept in olive blankets, crawled to artillery rounds.

He's never known anything but this life, where you fight and fight until you die. He's determined that when it's his time, he'll go out with a song and a chuckle, a well-lined wallet and several choice words.

Since he's lived at Lehigh all his life, known soldiers like this, it's no wonder what he likes. No wonder that his eyes stray to broad chests and thick arms, down the tender paper-white of a newly-shorn nape, into dreamy eyes and up perfect posture. Each new cohort of recruits means new sights, new business, new pleasure.

If you're smart, you love what you know best.

Rogers is a huge fellow, like nobody Bucky's ever seen outside physical-health pictorials or those get-fit-quick ads in funny books. He *should* talk like a Greek god come to earth. Like a preacher, full of fancy and old-fashioned declamations.

He should, but he doesn't.

Rogers mumbles a lot, in fact. He's got trouble meeting your eyes.

When he does, though, it's blue everywhere Bucky can see. The sky opens all the way up — this is the wild blue yonder, right here.

"Sorry, who?" Rogers mumbles.

Bucky laughs and swings a leg over Rogers's cot. "You really don't know who I am?"

Rogers looks to the side, hands fidgeting in his lap. "I'm sorry, no."

"Oh, *buddy*." Bucky bounces in the middle of the cot. He grins wide enough to show his molars. "Are you gonna get an *earful*."

Bucky loves this camp and its ever-shifting population of customers, brothers, and lovers.

No one's smarter than Bucky: That's the last principle, more important than all the rest.

[end]


End file.
